


look alive sunshine, brighter days are coming

by ascxndent



Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Aliens (1986), Aliens Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Gen, LET HIM BE HAPPY FOR GOD'S SAKE, Nothing Hurts, Slice of Life, and Alien 3 can choke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: In a different world, he lives. Damn right he's gonna make the most of it.( Or; five things Hudson does, and the one thing he doesn't do in a world where he makes it back to kiss the Earth's grass. )





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serennian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serennian/gifts).



> For my partner in crime, Conal. Because together we love our shitty space soldier son.

_one_

.

.

.

The kid’s never been to a fair, hell, she’s never seen one. Of course she hasn’t, the majority of her life was spent on a lifeless rock where the kids improvised fun out of maze-like vents and made playgrounds out of construction zones. But she’s never even heard of one, there weren’t any pictures of them in all the books she read about Earth. So no clue as to what a ferris wheel is, the gimmick about those obviously-rigged games with prizes you can get a dollar store ( and that he stubbornly plays anyways ) and, worst of all, never experienced the heavenly taste of fried anything -- even things you didn’t think could be fried, but are.

_Fuckin’ colonists._

He’s not going to say that out loud, he’s not stupid. But that doesn’t change the fact that that was the first thought that came to his mind during that conversation. At least he got her interests piqued, at least she started bombarding him with questions after that. That in itself was progress; Newt’s still not very talkative, she otherwise keeps to herself and never strays far from the legs of either Ripley or Hicks. At least it’s not like she doesn’t like him, she thinks he’s funny and he can get a laugh out of her ( at the cost of a look of disapproval from Ripley  -- he really does need a filter on that mouth of his ) but this is something else.

“A county fair is about as American as apple pie.” he tells her, but she doesn’t quite understand that either. Those big blue eyes are glued on him, and she’s deep in thought for a moment.

“I like apple pies.” she finally replies, hesitantly. It must’ve been the right answer, because she can see that grin on his face spread from ear to ear.

“Well shit! Then you’ll like the fair!” Is that generalization based on two inequivalent objects? Maybe. Does he give a shit? No. If he’s ever been so determined about being right with something, it’s this. She needs something like this, needs some fun in her life, something to give back after everything that’s happened in the few months past. He can’t fix her, no, but he’d like to give her a piece of childhood back. “And lucky for you, kid, it’s comin’ soon.”

Heh. _Comin’_.

Nah, better keep his mouth shut on that one.

.

.

.

Hudson liking kids isn’t all that surprising. He has a generally friendly and laid back demeanor, in spite of his arrogance, so sometimes kids seem to think he’s one of them. He’d liken himself a fun parent, the kind that sucks at saying no and has a good reputation among his kid’s friends; come to think of it, he’d prefer the title of a cool parent. But when he said all of this aloud once to the squad, he’d never seen so many faces turn white with sheer fear; geez, it’s a wonder why he couldn’t he get them to near-piss themselves like that when he tried telling scary stories. He didn’t get it, at first, not until one of them spoke up.

_“Don’t you ever fuckin’ reproduce, man.”_

His memory’s a bit groggy, but he’s fairly sure Drake said that; cold, dead-panned, as serious as can be. Yeah, musta been him. Because he can remember looking at Vasquez, then back at him, and replying; _“Likewise.”_

Ahh wait. Now he remembers. The memory’s repressed because of the pain that followed; Vasquez kneeing him right where the light don’t shine. She did damage on him for sure. His balls didn’t drop for a week after that.

( He made a joke recently to Hicks; that he’s gonna have an army of kids, to replace all their lost friends, name ‘em after every lost comrade. Needless to say, Hicks did not laugh. )

 

.

.

.

Okay. So maybe the cool parent title is off the table, for the moment.

He can be a cool uncle of sorts, can’t he? He can damn well try, yeah. He likes Newt, and Newt likes him  -- kinda, sorta? Yeah. And he owes it to her, for all the nonsense crap back there on LV-426. God, talking about losing his goddamn shit, and in front of a _kid_. Said kid keeping her cool for about ninety percent of the duration. He’s gotta make up for that at least.

What works anyhow? He toys with the thought. Uncle Hudson? Uncle Bill? Christ, no. Absolutely not. Forget it. She’s been calling him Hudson since day one, and it can stay that way.

.

.

.

On one hand, it’s a fantastic idea.

On the other hand, oh boy, he can sense that forthcoming _but_.

It’s not that Ripley dislikes him either. That’s really not the case. Sure, he’s like every rowdy teenage boy she’s ever dealt with combined into one singular being -- said being an adult, _somehow_ , in his late twenties -- but he’s got a heart of gold, he means well. It’s not him. It’s more to do with the reasonable paranoia; that ol’ us against the world motto. Or the feeling of doom and gloom, that someday, somehow _they’ll_ return. He doesn’t prod her about it, it doesn’t even need to be said. He gets it.

( Or maybe it’s the fear he’ll lose control or something; he’ll just start breaking down, or he’ll forget he’s keeping company of a nine year old and not friends his age, or just something so stupidly irresponsible that it sounds Hudson-like. Because apparently, there’s a _type_ associated with him and him only. )

Ripley closes her eyes, her features are stern and they don’t match the niceness in her tone of voice. “Don’t stay out too late.”

At last, approval. Even though it sounds like she’s somewhat begrudgingly resigning to it, at least the smile on her face is warm. There’s a hint of sadness in her eyes, maybe over how she hadn’t thought of this first, or how she’s incapable of going with them at this last second. She’s working with some loading dock company that’s got screwed up hours, non-negotiable for sure, that makes the decent pay’s worth questionable. But the company’s name is free from any attachments to Weyland-Yutani, and that will have to suffice for now.

“F -”

“And don’t feed her too much crap.”

Thank god for that interruption, because Hudson’s enthusiastic choice of words would have been a poor one. All of this progress would’ve gone right down the drain. So he keeps his big mouth shut and nods along, eagerly. It’s funny, the way she’s talking to him right now like she’s a mom. After all, ain’t she old enough to be his _grandma_ technically? A smoking hot one for that age, sure, but… nah. He’ll drop the thought, this is Hicks’ girl. And the likes of Ripley would eat him alive anyways.

“Yes ma’am.” is all he says, with a mock salute.

.

.

.

“So,” he pipes up as he’s parking the car in the already packed lot. He looks up, adjusting the rear view mirror to the sight of her. She looks comically small in the backseat there, and as nervous as a first-time actor with stage fright. “Whaddya wanna do first?”

“I don’t know.” she replies, keeping her eyes firmly glued to her lap as she twiddles her fingers together. “What do _you_ want to do first?”

“I dunno.” he shrugs playfully. “This is your day, kid. What do you wanna do?”

Like a broken record on repeat, she tells him once more; “I don’t know. What do you wanna do?”

Oh. It’s gonna be one of _those_ conversations, huh? Except it’s not one of those with Newt, it’s a first. Has she ever really talked like this to anyone? She actually sounds like a kid, for once.

This goes on for another minute or so, back and forth in an uninterrupted flow. He counts six times total that he’s repeated the question, in a different sing-song tone each time; she’s not really getting the memo here. Maybe she’s not even teasing at all. Is she really that unsure?

“Kid, we’re killin’ time here.” he sighs, unintentional Southern drawl slipping out on that sentence. “The lines are gonna get long as hell, the longer we stay here.”

“You’re the one making me plan.” she reminds him, finally looking up in the direction of the mirror where his eyes are. “I thought we could just pick things and go.”

Well, shit. Got him there.

“Alright.” Now he’s settled on it, unbuckling his seatbelt. She quickly follows suit, with a hint of a smile on her face when he says; “Y’got me there.”

.

.

.

( It’s simple, he has a very simple list of things to keep track of; the kid, his wallet, his USCM hat, and shades. All in that order of importance. )

.

.

.

For him, it’s pure nostalgia. It takes him back to childhood summers, the best part of it. Even when times were tough and money was tight, his family found a way to save up for this sort of event. It was worth it, every penny of it. He takes in the smell of fried food, the admittedly creepy but cheery tunes coming from the rides, and can’t help but laugh he hears the sound of kids screaming on the wooden coaster.

Newt? Not so much with that last part.

Out of nervous habit, she clutches onto his hand. For a moment, he’s taken back and it shows on his expression despite the shades. Luckily, it doesn’t take him long to put two and two together. So he kneels down to her height -- not to be condescending, but ‘cause the park’s loud as shit and she might not hear him -- and lifts his shades up.

“Hey,” he squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We don’t gotta go on that one if you don’t wanna. ‘Kay?”

Wordlessly, she nods.

Not to pat himself on the back, but he thinks he’s got this kid thing down to a T. Now his racking through his brain, tryna think what sorta ride is considered level 1 ( or even level 0, in her case ) that isn’t one of the kiddie rides for ages three and under. Unless she wants that, he ain’t judging. It’s just that those are the ones with the highest chance of smelling like vomit, or worse.

“Hudson?” Newt’s voice draws him back to reality. She points ahead of their direction to a sign with flashing lights. “What are bumper cars?”

Oh baby. Can you hear that 'Ode to Joy' choir playing?

William Hudson: Ultimate Badass, for sure. But also little known _Champion_ at Bumper Cars. Any and all who ever challenged him in his childhood were fucking decimated. He intends to keep that title too.

( Okay: he’s not gonna _destroy_ Newt. He’ll give her a fair chance, let her win a few times. And then… )

.

.

.

Spoiler Alert: That kid’s a fast learner apparently.

She was a little hesitant on the pedal at first, a little jumpy and jolting each time she pressed further. With everybody being keen on getting on the coaster, there wasn’t too many people on the floor with the cars, but still enough for someone to bump into her every now and then. At first, he could see her wince once or twice. Ah hell, he even got along in teasing her a bit -- knocking gently into her car and saying; “C’mon Newt, step on it!”

One experimental push on the pedal, and she crashes right into him. Except instead of jolting forward as badly as before, she had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. But even that loosened after it happened. Newt seemed to take in one deep breath, and suddenly a look of determination emerged.

Uh oh. He’s created a monster.

( Someday, Hicks is gonna fucking kill him for this, when the unfortunate day comes that he’s gonna teach her how to drive. Because _this_ is her only experience now. )

The kid is persistent like a leech. There’s not a second spent thereafter where his car is free to roam about, she just keeps crashing her vehicle right into his over and over. Even with little speed built-up, she’s still beating the hell outta him. So much for that champion title, huh?

She’s right up his ass, crashing into his bumper, when she mercilessly teases him in a sing-song tone; “C’mon Hudson, step on it!”

_Oh, you little shit._

“Hey I’m just letting you win!” he cries -- liar liar, pants on fire; a twenty eight year old is getting his ass kicked by a nine and a half year old -- and struggles to regain control of this miniature vehicle which suddenly his legs feel so damn cramped in. “Now it’s game ON!”

It was not, in fact, game on. There never was a game to begin with. She made complete roadkill outta him.

.

.

.

That was all it took for her to come out of her shell, because from there on out it was her sprinting off excitedly to each and every attraction that caught her eye. He’s on his toes keeping up with her  -- his pleas for her to wait are futile -- she wants to experience it _all_ . Except for the coaster, still no change in stance with that one. Otherwise it seems just about everything here lives up to her expectations ( if she had any; he wonders if she was expecting apple pie here because of his analogy ) even the freaking _carousel_. He didn’t hate the carousel per se, but it was hands down the most boring thing in the whole park. But this is new, magical territory for her. So you know what? Sure. Let her ride the goddamn magical unicorn in slow motion.

Actually, he’s a little grateful she enjoyed it. Because as soon as she hops off, he asks her the favor of getting back in line and getting on it again -- this time for pictures’ sake. He didn’t make any promises, but he feels like he kinda owes it Ripley.

Now, he’s not photographer. But there’s gotta be least ten decent pictures in his phone’s photo scroll after that of her smiling, mounting atop Winston ( yup, she found the time to name the damn unicorn after just two rides in ) and hell, he even got a video for the cinematic effect. It’s just a quick fifteen second video of her turning towards him and waving with one hand, the other clinging to the bar. He said hello, but she was too shy to speak up. The smile in response will suffice.

Just about anything that spins, zips, whirls, and so on forth is ridden at least once. The lines aren’t too terrible, not as compared to if he took her to one of those big name amusement parks, but it gets hotter as the day goes on. At one point, he takes his cap off and uses it as a makeshift fan for her. When she turns to look up and smile in his direction, he notices her squinting her eyes against the blaring sun. So now he has to sacrifice the convenience of his shades too, donating them to her for the day. Well, he really shouldn’t think of it as that, it’s not like she asked him. It was an obligation, a weakness, that sort of twinge-in-your-heart feeling when seeing a sad puppy commercial. He _had_ to do something for her.

Afterwards, he buys her a colorful spray mist fan that’s _supposed_ to light up, but it most certainly does not. But it does it’s main job, so it’s worth the overpriced buck of fifteen dollars. Okay so, he might or might not have argued with the vendor guy. Or not argue, as he’d call it, so much as _question_ the prices.

( “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he’d said word for word. )

But it was a reasonable outrage.

Least the fella finally gave in and accepted a military ID discount. Of a measly three dollars that is. So twelve dollars burned on a plastic little fan running on a limited battery, surely to run out of power by the end of the day. It’s a pure, malicious, money-making scam.

Now that he’s gotten his honorable discharge, he can’t help but wonder if he needs to reevaluate his future plans about opening up a bar. Maybe he ought to change things up a bit, partner up with the likes of these vendor dudes and make a couple of extra bucks.

“Hey Newt,” he turns to her as they leave the vendor. “D’ya know what a scam is?”

The utmost unexpected reply came out of her mouth, in a voice as soft and angelic as can be.

“Corporations.”

If he were carrying anything in that moment, he would’ve dropped it instantly. This straight up one of those kids say the darndest things, so it can’t be helped that he replies; _“Holy shit!”_

.

.

.

And yet, for someone was so vehemently outraged about these fair prices -- better yet, for someone with years of experience and awareness about the rigged grounds of the games -- he’d end this day with a purging his wallet, because why the hell not. In hindsight, he’ll look back and grumble over the stupidity. But it couldn’t be helped! Those vendors have some nice ass looking stuff, ridiculously super-sized stuffed animals and fascinating trinkets. Sure, sure, the games can be fun so long as one doesn’t try too hard; it’s a time-killer, really.

But Hudson was overwhelmed with that stubborn urge to be a try hard.

Blame it on the bear. Yes, one particular super-sized stuffed teddy bear with its beady black eyes of darkness staring right at him. It was speaking to him, challenging him. _Fuck you_ it just seemed to say as it dangled from the ceiling hook with pride. People had came and went past the baseball toss vendor which it was on display at, yet all had failed to acquire it. Until now. _No fuck you,_ was Hudson’s thought process which he thankfully did not say aloud.

He used to play little leagues for a few summers, and he was damn good at it. He’s in way better shape than what he was when he was a kid -- an amusing thought dawns on him, wondering if Newt would ever believe him if he told her that he used to be a chunky kid -- so his chances have got to be better. The objective is simple: knock down the milk bottles.

Y’know, if he can survive colony overrun by monstrous slithering creatures of another world, endure permanent scarring on his arm as a result of acidic blood as a cost for evading death as a whole, and make it out as said colony has an accidental countdown detonation then _yeah_. He can knock down some simple fucking bottles.

“Can I try?” Newt interrupts his internalized strategizing. Oh yeah, this whole event is about her after all. He can’t let a competitive spirit best that. She’s looking up at him from the comically big shades and hat ( yes; at some point he gave his hat up to her entirely ) with excitement.

He pats her on the shoulder, surrendering to the acceptance that they’re probably going to be here for a while battling it out with this bear. “Of course.”

Newt takes one of the baseballs with both of her hands and pauses, intending to aim. But when she throws, it comes up too short and misses the bottles by about a solid three feet. The shades don’t conceal her disappointment when she turns to Hudson, but he shrugs.

“Here, want the pros to handle it?” he feels bad, bad enough that he’s going to throw away this shot to make her feel good. So he aims a little higher and throws harder than needed, all purposely using his left hand as opposed to dominant right. Feigning disappointment of his own, he looks back at her again and shrugs in dismay.

Nope, she’s not buying. Not one bit.

“Hudson, you don’t have to play dumb for me just ‘cause I’m bad at it.” _damn_ is she straightforward with that one. Then, to top it all of, the kid must be a freaking mind reader because suddenly she smiles coyly; “I really want the bear too.”

Kids are weird, man. They just say and know shit that they shouldn’t, or you think they wouldn’t get. And it’s times like these where Hudson wants five of them.

“Alright,” it’s settled. Now he’s circumducting his right arm, gotta stretch out the ol’ joints before going to town. “No more screwin’ around.”

Now he’s going for it, for real this time. The goal is set, he’s not leaving this spot until he is victorious. Even if it takes one, two, three! Three tries, ‘cause third time’s the charm. That’s fine, he’s satisfied. The alarm at the vendor gives a congratulatory ding, accompanied by the game host and Newt’s excited applause.

They look like royalty, with her head held high with pride in those shades and he effortlessly carrying a useless stuffed bear that’s almost her size.

This pattern of him winning games in her favor no matter the cost goes on for a while. It’s safe to say he rocked the water guns on the first try, as if that was ever going to be an issue. The balloon darts are a load of underinflated bullshit, but he nails it after four tries or so. Ring the bell? Got that on the first try too, after five minutes spent needlessly flexing muscles to showcase to absolutely no one. Don’t get him started on the whack-a-mole, for what it’s worth at least Newt’s a good callout after three trial-and-error attempts. And so on and so forth.

Newt’s prize collection is as follows: a four pack of colorful glow in the dark bracelets on her left wrist, a slap bracelet on the right, a green big bubble wand, bead necklaces, giant sunglasses which she allows Hudson to wear instead, a packet of fake tattoos, a yellow mega punch ball, an inflatable guitar because it ‘looks cool’, and of course the bear.

( A bear that is surprisingly nameless still. When questioned, she’d said that the name will come to her. )

.

.

.

Nothing could prepare them for the motherload, no. The greatest glory of all, but at the cost of the greatest suffering.

Goldfish.

A fine companion that’ll last anywhere from a solid week to a couple of months, depending on one’s luck. Great at listening, not so much with communicating. Or entertaining. Or just about anything else, really. But when the sight caught her eye, it was game over. She’d come to a complete halt, and suddenly he felt a disturbance in the force. As though his wallet was about to take the beating of a lifetime.

Oh, _fuck._ It’s a ring toss. One of those seriously jacked up, obviously rigged kinds with too-small rings and too-large bottlenecks. The vendor standing there is looking mighty proud at his display, and the tankful of fish that has assumably yet to be won by anyone at all.

 _You’re all going home with Newt._ he decided, and that was that. One glance back at her and it was over, this was a vow that couldn’t be undone.

.

.

.

Goodbye $200.

Hello to Newt’s new thirty friends in a baggie.

.

.

.

( And that’s not even counting the amount spent on an ungodly amount of fried foods; twinkies, oreos, hell this year there’s even fried ice cream. Ain’t that some kind contradiction? He wasn’t asking. )

.

.

.

 

“I think I wanna try that.” she announces out of the blue, a split second and last minute decision at that. She’s looking up, in the general direction towards the mother of all things -- the coaster. With the hours waning down, the lines are slower and thus the wait time shorter.

“You sure?” he cocks his head to the side. He wants this to be a sound decision, and not something based off the possible nightmarish sugar high he’s placed her in; there’s a thought telling him that the real party will start tonight with that one, but by then she’ll be her parents’ problem.

She nods. “A-ffirmative.”

.

.

.

Kid never backs down once when in line. Never has a moment has a hesitation or reaches out for his hand when waiting. She’s anxious as they’re seated in, but from there it was history. There’s nothing like seeing a kid’s face for the first time as the experience coaster waves.

It was a real blast, up until the end of it. Once they were out and about after exiting the ride, without warning she vomited.

“Fuck!” he yells, nearly dropping all the crap and the bear at once. Not the correct reaction, but the expletive is not unreasonable. He’s at her side in seconds, awkwardly rubbing her back.

She whips her head up, the glasses almost thrown off so he can get a view of that jitterish excitement brought on only by an unholy combination of candy and adrenaline. “Can we go again?!”

Luckily for him, he was shit outta cash to buy any more tickets.

.

.

.

You know what? He did good. He did _damn_ good. He’s nodding himself in approval over his own inner monologue, glancing at the rear view mirror every now and then. It’s a sight to behold in the backseat, Newt surrounded by the materialistic items and bear companion. Ah yes, the bear. That motherfucker. Fifteen minutes were wasted trying to find a way to compress this bear and stuff into the trunk, but it would not budge. It was settled without much of a choice, that this bear would be joining her in the other seat. The fish are in her lap, safe and secure, and luckily none have decided to flip upside down on this ride back. As for Newt herself, the kid crashed about a couple of minutes into the ride.

Yeah, he did _real_ damn good.

.

.

.

It sure is a sight for Hicks to behold at the doorstep.

Hudson -- or what’s recognizable enough to determine that it’s Hudson -- with a sunburnt face and donning shades. Newt’s out cold, a cap that’s clearly not hers is lopsided and close to falling off as she slumps lazily against his friend’s shoulder, but he’s balancing her with ease in one arm. There’s a bear apparently, wearing a lot of interesting fashionable choices ( plastic jewellry, namely ) that one can guess are all the other accumulated prizes, that almost comes up to Hudson’s waist despite it sitting. And in Hudson’s other hand is….

“Hey Hicks. I hope ya like fish, buddy.”

.

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.

_fin._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hudson finds love in all the wrong places.

_two_

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.

.

The bar’s outside appearance initially gives it an old-dive look, on an old red light district. Despite the shady outlook ( and supposedly shadier history of ownership  -- it’s long and complicated, he never asks, it doesn’t matter now ) it’s actually a decent hotspot for the military; it’s a ten minutes’ distance drive from a base, the prices are cheap, and there’s an American flag strung up on display by the bartender. Granted, a tattered and old as balls looking flag, but it’s the thought that counts. And the owner’s a real generous fella, always gives discounts to anyone with military identification.

He’s alone for multitude of reasons; Hicks told him ‘not tonight’ except not tonight is essentially every night, there never is a night anymore -- he chugs down his drink mid thought -- hell, Hicks can’t be damned to give him the time of day anymore, too busy playing house with a woman he’s not married to and a kid that’s not his. And speaking of them, hell he’d invited them. Well, Ripley that is. But apparently her preference of poison is cigarettes, and his sober rowdiness is enough to handle as is. Her decline is always brief and polite, but personally he’s waiting for the day she’ll just tell him to fuck off; everyone else has said it. Like Vasquez, who speaking of which, only declined because she knows when she starts, she can’t stop. Not like how she used to. Drake was always her anchor, her restraint at times, and him being gone only makes it worse.

As for Gorman… man, nothing against the guy. But unlike Vasquez, he doesn’t seem to be aware of his inability to stop. The first and last time he ever invited the former lieutenant with him, it ended in an emotional outpour of survivor’s guilt. A lot of awkward back patting ensued, and slurred reassurances on Hudson’s messed up end.

( Apparently, they both cried. On each other, at some point. _What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas._ Except this isn’t fucking Vegas. )

Does Bishop drink? Now that’s a good fucking question. That’s enough to prompt him to knock back his cup entirely, lapping up the last few drops of beer as if that’s fuel for brain power. Androids can drink apparently, he only knows that because a lot of bars around here have anti-android policies for serving. Except how the fuck are they supposed to figure that one out, unless they’re bleeding out in bar fights.

Huh. Bishop in a bar fight. Now that’s a fucking thought.

Two fingers up, signalling the bartender over and wordlessly indicating for another one. He’s here for a good time now, not a long time. And he’s about to go to town on the next one when she walks in.

( That’s how it always starts, doesn’t it? Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world… yada yada. He was here for a good time only, not looking for any trouble, and bam. A little bit of both when she walks in. )

.

.

.

No, god, _seriously_. Get a look at her: She’s a tiny thing, even in heels, that boost isn’t doing her any good. But drop dead legs -- even if the illusion of length fails -- toned and smooth. Curvaceous, in all the right places in that form fitting dress. Wild, thick jet-black hair all done up for the occasion, but she looks like the type who usually wears it down. Oh, and that lovely rack. Nice face too, her eyes are lovely too when he looks right at them and ooooh fuck fuck fuck.

Direct eye contact, like a creep. Genius, William Hudson. Fuckin’ genius.

Did she notice? Oh yeah she noticed  -- he was staring directly fuckin’ at her -- she’s moving, the sway of her hips and -- Christ! She’s moving in the direction _towards_ him. Maybe he should go, yeah. He should do that. Except with all that brilliant fuckin’ tactical coordination he’s got instilled him, he gracelessly launches himself outta the bar seat and onto the floor.

( Funny thing is, he’s only ever done combat drops. Never anything with parachutes. Thank fuckin’ god. )

“Are you alright?” a sweet, accented voice asks. There’s a pair of hands feeling up on him, reaching for his armpits to help pull him up. _Don’t be her, don’t be her._ He staggers to his feet with this stranger’s help, glancing up. Fuck. It’s her.

“Yeah, I uh…” A hand comes to the back of his now-sweating-profusely neck. Quick, think of something funny. Humor is his thing. “... Uh, _yeah_.”

Fuckin’ nailed it.

Little Miss Showstopper crosses her arms, expression playful as a brow quirks up. “Are you always this articulate?”

“No.” A blink. “I mean -- _yeah_ .” Followed by a shake of the head. “I mean I’m the guy with the _tactics_.”

She said tactics, right? He thought he heard right. Tactics, articulate, they kinda have the same sound to them if one doesn’t think about it.

Or he’s a bit drunker than he thought.

“Right.” she nods, feigning understanding. “Your team must be in real good hands then.”

His mood drops, right then and there. She didn’t have go to there. Not her fault, she can’t possibly know but… ouch. His expression must’ve dropped too, because suddenly hers changes. It morphs, the playfulness replaced with sympathy and immediate regret. She doesn't get it, does she? She can’t possibly know.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. That was mean of me. C’mon -- ” Suddenly she’s helping him right back to his seat. Damn, she’s stronger than she looks. “ -- atta boy.”

( Ain’t nothing like a woman that can kick his as. )

Little Miss Knock Outta the Ballpark is looking right at him. Maybe it’s got something to do with that goofy ass smile plastered on his face again. Amusement twinkles in her dark brown eyes, she seems to be getting something outta this, ‘cause suddenly she’s taking the seat right next to him. Just as she goes to reach into her clutch for something -- a wallet, probably -- he shoots his arm out, waving it off.

With his other arm, his thumb points directly into his chest. “‘S on me.”

“You’re sweet. But man, I dunno how to thank you…”

She trails off, awaiting a name reveal. For once since the start of this interaction, he handles a social cue appropriately.

“Bill.” he finishes. It’s weird, seeing his own damn name sometimes. But she’s a civvy, a sweet thing, and he’s on such a buzz at this point that if she starts calling him Hudson then she’ll morph into one of the guys right before his eyes; and that’s a horrifying turn-off. Not even because they’re dead, but ‘cause none of them could ever work a dress like that. ( Except Frost, maybe. _Maybe_. He had nice legs. Nothin’ wrong with noticing that. )

She’s got a nice smile of her own with those gleaming pearly whites.

“Carmen.”

.

.

.

Is she coming onto him, or is it the other way around, or a little bit of both? This is going somewhere for sure. She’s flirting with him, she’s laughing -- actually _laughing_ , honest to god genuine -- at his jokes, just when he thought his game was weak. Okay, maybe it’s a little rusted. But it’s working out for both of them actually; he’s splurged on her between drinks and just now the greasy fries he forgot this place serves. As soon as the bartender sets the plate of them down, she scarfs them down like a wolf with fresh-caught prey. Honestly? It doesn’t bother him one damn bit, he hates it when girls act all dainty with their food as if there’s even a lady-like way of digesting. _Just be yourself!_ Or really, he doesn’t mind it at all because he’s eating ketchup drizzled fries out of her hand.

He might or might not be acting inappropriately, locking eyes with her the whole time when he takes them from between her fingers.

To be fair, she’s getting pretty suggestive with some mouth gestures too.

.

.

.

Three rounds into pool and he finds himself thinking back to when the last time it was that he got his ass kicked this hard. Like, she is wiping the floor with him. If he thought his pick-up lines were rusty, then this is a sorry sight. He used to be a fuckin’ champ and now? Second game in and he somehow managed to knock the eight ball in on his very first turn.

It’s not a total loss at least. During the first game she _conveniently_ seemed to forget how to hold the stick and asked for him to show her. Cheesiest fucking trick in the book, it sounds like a set-up for a cheap porno. They both know it, and he goes for it anyways. Gotta show her the ol’ technique -- what technique, precisely? The Hudson’s Shuts-In. Makes _no_ fucking sense, it’s the stupidest thing on the block. And he made it up on the spot, his buzzed senses convincing him that was a cool thing.  

( “Your technique was shit, by the way.” she smirks as the eight ball goes rolling and bam -- another consecutive win for her. )

.

.

.

They stumble out of the bar hand in hand, like two horny teenagers on prom night looking for a quickie in the parking lot, and can’t even wait the five minutes for their pending taxi before locking lips. Oh man, oh man. He needed this, he so fucking needed this. All he can taste is salt and liquor, he can’t remember if she’s wearing lipstick or not, but he wouldn’t mind it one bit if she smears it all over his face. He’s losing himself to his senses. When she pulls away and says something along the lines of _“let’s go back to your place, mine ain’t any fun”_ he just nods along, and another two awkward minutes pass before he realizes he kinda has to tell the driver his address.

“To-night, Carmen’s coming back home tonight,” he drunkenly sings a lyric to a song he can’t remember the name of. It just happened to come to mind. But it must’ve been pretty bad, because she shushes him up by shoving her finger against his lips.

 

.

.

.

It’s all bits and pieces from there; at some point after tipping the cab driver and stumbling up the stairs to his unit, everything seemed to mesh together in his memories. Flustered fingers struggling to get his key in, the commencement of an awkward tour lasting a few minutes or so, and then getting right to it. She hopped up on him like a rabbit, little legs wrapping ‘round his waist and her mouth glued on his; it’s a miracle neither bashed their heads into the wall maneuvering that way to the bed. Next thing he knows they’re helping each other’s clothes off, he’s kicking his pants off like they’re strangling him, she’s straddling him. _Jesus._ She’s gorgeous, he remembers that, what a sight to behold. Not to be a pansy, but he really did start choking up  -- no. no. He did _not_ cry during sex. -- it just… it just kinda fucked him up for a second, thinking about how if he’d died way back when ( meaning only a few months back ) then he’d never set his sights on her.

“God -- ” he’d sputtered, hands on her hips. “You are _beautiful_.”

“C’mon _payaso_ ,” she giggles, refraining from rolling her eyes, but flattered nonetheless. “Save it.”

( And as one classic song goes, she shook him all night long. )

.

.

.

 

At some point that’s not quite night anymore but there’s no sign of sunrise yet, he stirs from his slumber. Head pounding, vision blurry, he still a bit disoriented to time and place. Well, he knows where he is. But was that real? Was that really real?

He spares a quick glance and sure enough, there’s a naked girl in his bed lying prone. There are clothes tossed all over the god damn place. The sheets are kinda sticky and smell like dried sweat ( nice going, he _just_ did laundry; he’s on the top floor of this apartment, and it’s six floors down to the basement laundromat -- oh, and the elevator’s busted ) and his muscles are achingly sore. Oh yeah. Either the most intense nudist cardio workout has just occured, or they just did the horizontal mambo.

Frankly? It was just nice to have someone, even if temporary.

He rolls on his side in the direction to her, one arm thrown lazily atop her body. She can easily move it off, if at any point that’s what she wants. Until then, it was nice just being here like this for now.

Whether unconsciously or not, he can’t say for sure, but she seemed to lean closer into him thereafter. He fell asleep with a hint of a smile on his face, boosting in his head.

_Boo yeah._

.

.

.

Come morning, he feels his arm drop and a shift in weight beside him in the bed. It was a mistake trying to immediately open his eyes just like that, because he was greeted with blinding sunlight seeping from the curtains. Just like that, an instantaneous trigger for a headache. With one elbow against the mattress, he propped his head up and pinched the bridge of his nose. A groaning expletive was nothing atypical to come out of his mouth. He was anything but a morning person.

_“Fuuuck.”_

“Morning to you too.”

Oh. So she hadn’t just tiptoed on out.

He shook his head, blinking repeatedly. There was Carmen at the head of the bed redressing and smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress, but little could be done about the smudged makeup around her eyes or frazzled hair. She flashed him a tired smile to match her humored words.

“Mornin’,” he yawned, a hand thankfully over his mouth. He hadn’t even considered possible morning breath until now, it’d be the worst cause for her to run out on him. But that didn’t seem to matter in this moment. They found themselves staring blankly at one another, and when the silence went out for too long her eyes flickered to the floor instead.

He rubbed the back of his stiff neck, wincing. Without a doubt, he’d be covered in bruises from all this. “D’ya uh… you want coffee? Breakfast?’

She shook her head almost instantly, declining both offers.

“Look,” Carmen started. “Bill, about last night…”

Oh fuck. His face drops, turning white with panic. What if she regretted all of it? It sure sounded like it, just from the tone of her voice right now. He should do something, say something, maybe he should apologize for it all. Yeah. He should do that.

“Oh, geez. I - I’m really sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m some kinda creep that led you back here and - ” he’s rambling on, but the apology has genuine intent. It’s not something he’d like to be remembered as by someone. It’s bad enough that there are some who remember him at his worst, who remember his breakdown and his whining cowardice. And sure, he pulled himself together in the end but that doesn’t undo the damage. It certainly doesn’t undo the shame he feels.

“No!” she interrupts, shaking her head and hands now like it’s all one big misunderstanding. “No, I had fun last night with you. I really did! It’s not about that, it’s just I didn’t think I’d end up here.”

Now she’s lost him. He shuffles out of bed and starts gathering up his clothes, trying to register the meaning of her words. “You said to you wanted to come back here. You said your place was a real bummer.”

“I did?” A blink. A miraculous recovery of memory. “Shit. You’re right. Guess I did.”

Except that she was way too skitterish looking in these past few moments, He was drunk off his ass last night, he didn’t really know what she meant by her place being no fun. He’d thought she’d meant it was a mess or too far away for a cheap cab ride. Which, looking back, neither of those make sense. Get a load of his place -- none of those intergalactic housing programs are gonna bring their fucking cameras over and show off his home anytime soon. Maybe it was a case of an annoying roommate who wouldn’t leave, or _worse_.

The revelation startles him just as he’s pulling his pants to his hips. It fucks him up so bad he nearly trips over himself, just from the act of putting pants on, and nearly flops backwards onto the bed in a marvelous display of clumsiness.

“Holy shit  -- don’t tell me you’re a kid!” he screeched. Shit! There’s a million reasons why that was the dumbest fucking move in the world, but the top two are one: the still pounding headache resonating through him over the slightest wrong movement or loud noise. Two: the walls around here are kinda old, they might be thin, there might be a window open. The point is someone could’ve heard that.

Carmen furrowed her brow, looking at him as though he’d just questioned the validity of her species being human. “What? Dude, I’m twenty years old. C’mon.”

Great, oh that’s just great. Okay, better to be one year under the legal drinking age than underage entirely. But if she thinks that’s the end of it with his paranoid questionnaire then nope. Nuh uh. He’s not dropping this. “Alright, then why didn’t you wanna go back to your place?”

“‘Cause it would’ve just been awkward!” she crosses her arms, standing her ground.

“Why? ‘Cause your shotgun dad woulda killed me onsight?!” he’s on the verge of outright panic but for different reasons. Somehow, he’s convinced himself that he’s gotten himself deep in something because of her vague responses. Maybe her old man’s a former Marine. Maybe he’s a mob boss. Maybe he’s a fuckin’ CEO working for Weyland-Yutani.

“No!” she’s started to get pissed now, he can tell by the look of her face. But he’s still racking through his brain with all the possible suggestions. Awkward silence ensued, lasting only a few seconds.

“... You got a really big, scary husband?”

An exhausted sigh. _“No.”_

“Then what?” he’s out of options; that was possibilities A through C. Unless there’s backup D, which is the offhand chance that she has a big, scary wife perhaps.

Hudson watched as she wracked her hands through her thick, semi-knotted hair. Although she was frustrated from this argument, it seemed like she suddenly embarrassed now instead. Enough so that the reply which came from her mouth was muttered, he didn’t hear a damn thing. ( He’s got slight tinnitus as a result from exposure -- he’s had that for a long time now, actually. ) It was clear he didn’t hear it, but the confused expression on his face and the hand cupping his ear. Once again, she sighed.

“My sister.”

Well, that was an unexpected answer.

“Ahh, I see. A jealous twin?” he inquires, relaxing his shoulders now. Was there a single sister who despised the loneliness, only for it to be reminded by her gorgeous other half bringing home someone like him? It’d be even more ironic if they were identical. Oh man. Two for the price one. There was plenty of him to go around last night.

“Bill, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I mean that my sister could easily kick your ass. Especially if she thought you were some sleazebag coming on to me for the night.” Carmen retorted dryly, her words relentless. Boy, there was a lot of emphasis on the ‘easily’ part. It didn’t sound like bragging so much as it was a warning, like there’s a history of boys getting their hands broken for copping a feel on her.

Still, he’s skeptical. “What, really? C’mon, she can’t be all that bad.”

She didn’t answer him at first, instead choosing to reach over and grab her wallet that she’d left on his nightstand. It was just about the only item of hers that hadn’t ended up on the floor last night. “She’s bad alright. The baddest motherfucker there is.”

There’s a twinge of pride in her voice at first, but still a look of fear -- fear for him, apparently, and none for her -- when she turned to speak to him. There’s more to this too, he can tell. She’s holding back something. It’s on the tip of her tongue, tempted to come out. Finally, she blurts it out.

“And I uh, borrowed her ID.”

“Borrowed?” he repeats, brows raised.

She shrugs. “... Without her permission.”

Alright, not the worst thing someone can do. In a world where there’s things like intergalactic wars, specisms, murder, fraud and extortion, assault, and so on forth, stealing your sibling’s ID for one fun night just ‘cause you can’t wait another year is far from the worst. Hell, he was out partying hard in his last two years of high school.

It’s whatever, really. He’s not gonna condemn her for that. “Go figure, we’ve all kinda done stuff like that.”

Apparently, he’s just not getting it. So this time, she goes off the rails; “Her _military_ ID. I know, I know. That’s kinda fucked up -- but I swear, I was never gonna walk around pretending to be one, y’know? I just wanted the discounts. And then you started buyin’ me drinks, and you were real cute, I didn’t think none of this was gonna be a problem! But by now she’s gotta be worried or pissed or both! Probably both, actually. And that’s _bad_.”

She starts crying, _crying_. Not hardcore bawling or anything like that, no, but she buries her face into one of her hands and suddenly there’s a sniffling storm. It’s an outpour of stress, and like a complete idiot he’s just standing there watching it unfold. At least, for the few seconds of it. Then something kicks him, tells him he should do something. So he goes up to her and hesitantly wraps his arms around here, feeling abso-fucking-lutely useless.

“Hey c’mon,” he tried. “It’s not that bad.”

“No, really! I’m such an idiot!” she wailed. “All I do is worry her! Can’t blame her, ‘cause I’m nothin’ like her. I’m just an absolute shit for brains!”

Oh, he resonated with that last one all too well. In spite of his bravado and confidence, it was really all just a facade. He knew that damn well, having learned the hard way. No one else should ever have to feel that shitty under any circumstances. So the hold he has on her becomes less awkward, more genuine instead.

“No you’re not, Carmen.” Maybe it’s not all that reassuring, coming from a guy she just met less than twenty four hours ago. But it’s better than saying nothing. “You’re not dumb, not at all.”

Her small sobs suddenly turn into laughter, he can feel her shaking her head against his chest, her hair nuzzling against his neck. “You barely know me.”

True. But at least there were some conversations shared between them last night, it could be worse. They could’ve just woken up like this without remembering each other’s names. Oh man, he used to do that not too long ago, and that was not the brightest fucking idea. Those were a lot worse than this.

Still, he smiles like he means it ( and he does, honestly ) and says; “Well, I like what I see so far.”

She laughs again, the sorrowful mood from before having stopped entirely now. She stays dormant for a moment, settled in his arms like a fitting little puzzle piece.

Oh yeah. This is way fucking better than past incidents.

.

.

.

He can’t help but try again in offering her breakfast, at the very least offering to take her out to a nearby diner for some grub. But just as before, she declines. She’s still just as urgent about getting home as soon as possible -- it’s funny how much it reminds him of himself when he was in high school, desperately trying to find a way to sneak back through a window after breaking curfew -- so this time he offers her a ride back home.

The ride back was rather uneventful nor conversational, save for directional input on her end. Otherwise it was him focusing on driving and her gazing out the window, twirling a piece of her hair. There were a few stolen glances here and there without the other noticing, but neither could work up the courage to think of anything to say. Strange, how under different circumstances and a different environment, people just seem to change their demeanor entirely. To be fair, he’s still kinda hungover and just trudging through it for her sake, so he can’t really think up of any wisecracks.

Meanwhile, she distracts herself with her phone -- after he generously loaned her his car charger for the ride -- engaged in a text conversation with what he can only assume is her sister. Carmen has her eyes practically glued to the screen and types messages for up to a couple of minutes, like she’s writing an essay due the morning of. Either she’s pouring her heart out in some kind of explanation, or she really is in deep shit with her sister.

Hopefully, he won’t be caught in the crossfire.

Then out of nowhere she shoots him a quick, remorseful apology -- “Sorry, one sec.” -- because her phone’s vibrating, and next thing he knows she’s engaged in a rapid fire conversation with someone almost entirely in Spanish. Shit, it’s like two hundred words in under thirty seconds. On one hand, Carmen sounds pissed and it shows with how she rolls her eyes or makes an occasional hand gesture. But on the other hand, every now and then if he strains in to listen, he can hear the other person on the line sounds really, really pissed.

From what little he’s caught on after years of hanging around Vasquez, he knows phrases here and there. Well, frankly, he knows the swear words best. And there are a _lot_ of them being exchanged back and forth between the two.

This carries on throughout the remainder of the time until reaching the destination. No, _literally_. Just as he’s about to drive past this street, she stops mid-conversation to casually point out that one house in particular is hers. One screeching halt and abrupt phone call goodbye later, and here they are. Parked up against the side of the street, looking like a couple of jackasses.

He’s looking at her, she’s looking at him. No one’s saying or doing anything. Jesus they’re acting like two kids on the first date, wondering if there’s enough time for a makeout session since she’s back five minutes before curfew ends. It’s pathetic, and somewhere he swears the spirits of his friends must be shaking their heads and booing -- _this bitch is stupid!,_ they’d probably say about him.

“So…” Perfect. A natural icebreaker from his end, as his fingers tap against the wheel. Toss in a charming smile and hope it goes from there.

Well, it must’ve somehow worked, because next thing he knows she launches herself from her seat to kiss him; thank god that seatbelt didn’t yank her back. It had been so frantic, so sudden that teeth nearly crashed into each other. Otherwise, her mouth is warm and there’s heat pooling into his own, she’s glued to him by her hands holding his face. Just as he closes his eyes, just as he starts getting into it, she pulls herself right off him. With a mischievous, crooked little smirk on her face, she unlatches her seatbelt and utters a single, sing-song croon of a _bye_ before exiting.

Woah. Woah. Woah. Hang on there. That’s just the end of that? He blinks, frozen from the shock of being taken by surprise before. No way, man, no way. There’s gotta be a better goodbye than that.

“Hey!” he rushes out, almost getting caught in a wrestling match with his seatbelt like a dumbass for a second. “Will I uh… see you around?”

His words ignite a memory, her eyes come alight. “Oh. Right! That reminds me…”

Practically spinning on her heels, she turns right around in a hop-skip and darts right back to him. He’s not entirely sure of it, but he’s pretty sure he can feel her hands in his jacket pockets for a second. Next thing he knows, they’re on his face and he’s craning down for her. Eyes closed, he’s less than an inch from her face when a third voice.

“Carmen?”

It all happens so quickly, and yet plays out in slow motion.

First, he hears the soft, audible gasp from Carmen -- feels it against his skin, feels the brush of wisps of her hair when she ships her head around -- before he thinks to open his eyes. Then when he finally does, it takes him too long to flicker up in the same direction she’s turned.

Vasquez.

His stomach’s performing motherfuckin’ summersaults and flips for the motherfuckin’ intergalactic Olympics, energy based on adrenaline and fear. Pure fear.

That is motherfucking Vasquez -- never underestimate her, that short height only means there’s pure, unadulterated and uncontained rage in here -- standing right in front of them. Hudson might be a lot of things, and he might even be stupid at times. But never this stupid. It doesn’t take long to put two and two together right then and there.

_Oh. fuck._

( Fuck fuck fuck fuck -- it is too fucking late to make it to the car, isn’t it? )

This is Carmen’s sister. _She_ is Carmen’s sister. This is the sister she stole her military ID from for the night. This is the ultimate badass sister who can easily kick his ass, as Carmen phrased it.

Motherfucking Vasquez is looking right the fuck at him and motherfucking Carmen, who he _fucked_ last night.

( Fuck. Fucking hell. He just survived the worst motherfucking mission of his life in the last four weeks, and didn’t revise his will then. He’s made it since those four fucking weeks. And he never revised that will. He survived all that, just to die here and there. )

“Jenette!” Carmen chirps, a tad too high-pitched to be considered calm but otherwise appearing so. You gotta be fucking kidding him, she’s addressing her like she’s her cool big sister who scares off the bullies for her and occasionally lets her tag along with the older kids shenanigans. Maybe that’s who Jenette is, maybe. But right now Vasquez is looking at him and there is a reign of fire ignited in her dark brown eyes. She hasn’t said a word, but she knows, doesn’t she? Oh she _knows_ alright. Is it too late to provide an explanation of sorts? Perhaps an apology?

“Vasquez…” he says weakly, practically quivering with pathetic laughter. Carmen’s expression is surprised for a moment, for a _moment_ and then she seems to get it, because it drops thereafter. She’s looking back and forth between the two of them, who having seemingly frozen in place.

“Ooooh. You two uh, know each other?” her hands are crossed, pointing at one another. Bless her heart for trying to create a diversion or lower the tension. But for all those good intentions, she’s probably ruined it.

The nod which Vasquez gives is a slow one, sending chills down his spine.

“Yeah. I _know_ him.”

Well, it sure was a nice gig, being alive and all.  

No wait, wait. Come on. Think of something. Anything. Let her know it’s not what it looks like? No, don’t trying lying. Lying will make it worse for sure. Maybe tells her things weren’t supposed to turn out like this but y’know, the good ol’ saying goes about how shit happens. But he can swear up and down in the good lord’s name -- hell he can tap dance and sing cadence in a damn stripper’s outfit if she demands it; whatever she wants -- he had no bad intentions here. He had no idea this was her sister, he didn’t know she even had a sister to begin with, and there was no pervy joke behind this. No ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but I nailed your sister’ gag to this. Not at all. Carmen was different, yeah. She was amazing, no not like that. Your sister, he should say, has an amazing personality, she’s funny, she’s spirited, she is a wonderful sister for someone to have and --

“Your sister’s beautiful!” is all he blurts out, hands raised in defense.

Fucking. Brilliant.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU _PENDEJO!_ ”

.

.

.

This was it.

This was the story of how Hudson died after the events of LV-426.

Just kidding, unfortunately for him.

If he had died at any point in the moment, he wonders if the spirits of his friends shoved him right back down to the good ground of Earth. Not out of sympathy or protest that it isn’t his time, but more to do with them being the world’s worst friends -- their jeers supposedly encouraging, as much of a mockery as the pats on his shoulder and back. _Nice goin’ buddy!_ followed by a _Go get ‘em tiger!_ and various other sarcastic decrees. God, he can imagine it all from them, and he swears he experienced it.

The truth was that these were more than likely hallucinations of any sort during his period of unconsciousness. Time works strangely in that sort of period; there’s so much of it and yet so little. For however long the length is, he finds himself contemplating in that period. Mostly on the subject of how in the _hell_ did he never notice the sibling resemblance at any point at all, drunk or not. Granted, personalities and demeanors can have an effect -- a very big effect here, apparently -- but still. _How?_  

The real question here was whether or not it was worth it.

He thinks back fondly of Carmen; her smiles, her sweetness, her rocking body.

Oh hell yeah. Fucking worth it.

.

.

.

 

He wakes up, figure slumped against the frame of his car. Immediately, a surge of pain rolls through him and he clutches at his stomach -- holy fuck, he’s this close to throwing up on sight -- and there’s a white-hot sensation of pain right on his nose. One hand comes closer to inspect and _ouch._ Sure enough, that thing is swollen and his fingertips are coated in blood. Fuck, don’t even get him started on the back of his head.

Well apparently, he later learns that he passed out on the spot out of fear before Vasquez could even touch him. His head went knocking back into his own car -- thus the head injury -- doing his own damage, keeping him out cold for at least a solid fifteen minutes. Those fifteen minutes specifically were Carmen’s attempts to keep her sister away, trying to be a voice of reason in explaining everything out. And it seemed to work, for a moment.

( Except that Vasquez had to turn around and throw one well-deserved punch in on the side of his face; he’d only it later on, it wouldn’t be that bad. It could always be _worse._ )

So it was all up to him to make that drive of shame to the emergency room, just in case. He checks out with a broken nose and a concussion, concocting a story about being so damn drunk last night that he ran headfirst into his door or something like that. Seems convincing enough. It had to be, he knew better than to snitch.

.

.

.

This is, hands down, an absolute suicide mission.

When will he learn? His fingers are twiddling with the crumpled piece of paper left behind in his jacket, his only coping mechanism for the stress as he hears the first two rings. When will he ever fucking learn about actions having consequences, or that motto about not repeating history?

_“Hello?”_

Did his heart just fucking flutter at that? And is he really about to forget how to respond; do something, idiot!

“Carmen?”

_“Bill! Holy shit! I didn’t think you’d ever wanna talk to me again.”_

“I’ve had worse,” he laughs it off and it’s not quite a lie. “Hey listen uh -- are you free anytime? Like, to go out? With me? On a date?”

He could’ve not gotten so nervous and learned the pauses weren’t necessary, that all of that could’ve been said in a single statement in one breath. Or even better, he could realize the dangerous waters he was treading here. But it takes less than five seconds for that joyful _“Uh, yeah!”_ to follow and oh man, oh man. So worth it.

He’s here for a good time, and probably not ( that much ) of a long time anyways.

.

.

.

 

_fin._


End file.
